Sunday

A weekly poem, read by the author.
March 18 1999 3:30 AM

Sunday

(Continued from Page 1)

all four haunches and the ribs.

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Summer always ended with a catfish

large as a grown man's thigh

severed at the hip, thrashing

in a tin washtub: a mean fish, a fish

who knew the world was to be endured

between mud and the shining hook.

He avoided easy quarry: possum

and squirrel, complacent carp.

He wouldn't be caught dead

bagging coon; coon, he said,

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